


dweller on the threshold

by ymorton



Series: divorce verse [2]
Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, One Night Stands, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 16:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13505412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: the premise of this fic is basically: what if everything went wrong?a sequel tohold your peace.takes place in november 2023.





	dweller on the threshold

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE: do not show this to anyone involved. this is a work of fiction. it does not reflect my views on the real people involved. please be chill and respect the fandom fourth wall. 
> 
> my first podsa fic over 10k! and it's a bunch of moping and self-destructive behavior!! i'm so predictable. 
> 
> this started as a message i sent to emmy and grace many months ago while i was walking around a crater in iceland. thanks to val threeturn for endless chats about this and being so nice. you summed it up pretty well with "the boy who had everything now has nothing except his dog and he's not even sure what happened". sorry, favs.

“Pardon me, sorry,” the man says, sliding into the seat next to Jon. He looks over at him, and Jon gives him a wan smile. The man looks him up and down and then returns it.

“What’re you drinking?” he asks, pushing his dark hair out of his face. He’s handsome, young, late twenties maybe. Jon’s not sure. All he knows is the guy makes him feel old.

“Uh, it’s scotch,” Jon says, coughing a little. He hasn’t spoken since the last session of the conference, except to the bartender and the hotel concierge. Some of the other presenters were going out to some nightclub but he begged off because of jetlag. “Macallan, 12 year.”

“Solid choice,” the man says approvingly, and then to the bartender- “One of what he’s having, thanks.”

Jon takes a sip of his drink and turns back to his phone, scrolling idly through Twitter. He’s cut down on his tweeting since he hit 40 but he’s still a chronic refresher. Emily started to hate that about him, near the end. The therapist said it was all tied up in his conflict avoidance issues, which Jon didn’t really get. It’s just fucking Twitter.

“You American?” the man asks. Jon looks up and he grins, flashing white teeth. There’s a stud glinting in his nose. “The accent.”

“Yeah,” Jon says. “Yes, I am.”

“Well, welcome to London. Where are you from? I’ve got a cousin in Michigan.”

“California,” Jon says, clicking his phone screen off with his thumb. “Los Angeles. I’m just here on business.”

“Ooh, California. I’ve always wanted to go.” He leans on the bar, offers Jon a hand. “I’m Connor.”

Jon takes his hand. “Jon.”

“Lovely to meet you.” He grins, thanks the bartender when she slides his drink in front of him, adds- “Get another one for him, too, will you? Thanks love.”

“Oh- you don’t have to-“ Jon starts. “You don’t have to do that. Thanks, but-”

“You’re a guest in this country,” Connor says, looking amused. “Let me treat a fit American to a drink.”

Jon shrugs. One drink won’t hurt.

“So, what kind of business?” Connor asks, when Jon’s been served.

Jon drains his first drink, throat burning. He coughs again, into his elbow. “Political. A, uh, forum on international politics.”

“Oh god, you’re a politician.”

Jon breathes a laugh. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“What do you do then?”

“I’m a writer, I guess,” Jon says. “And a consultant. But that sounds kinda douchey. I just, um. I started a media company that, uh, provides political content.”

But even that’s not the whole story, not since Lovett moved to New York and Tommy launched his Senate campaign and Jon drifted away too, started writing again, articles for Crooked and speeches for Tommy and a crappy, maudlin book about the Obama years that he can’t fucking finish. Their names are still on the company, it’s still theirs, but it’s not the same. _Crooked Media Next Gen_ , Lovett calls it, when they have their monthly e-board conference calls.

“Interesting,” Connor says.

“Is it?” Jon asks, with a laugh. “I don’t know. Basically I talk a lot of shit for a living.”

“I’d believe it, coming from that face,” Connor says, mouth curling up a little at the edge. Jon goes red again, laughs.

“Think you need your vision checked,” he says, fumbling for a sip of his drink. “Pretty sure I’m the oldest person in here by like 10 years at least. They didn’t mention it was so hip, I thought I’d be okay.”

Connor snorts, lowers his voice. “Yeah, this place is a bit pretentious. But my office is just around the corner, and they do a great cheese plate during happy hour, so.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a student, actually,” he says, and laughs at the look on Jon’s face. “Not like uni, don’t worry. I’m getting my doctorate.”

That doesn’t make Jon feel much better. “What’re you studying?”

“Roman history. It’s really tedious and I have a massive piece of my thesis due next week, so I won’t get into it. It’s horrible. I’m shit at writing.”

“I’ve been trying to write too,” Jon says, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “A book, though. It’s driving me nuts.”

“A book, wow.” Connor leans on his elbow. He keeps looking at Jon like he’s genuinely fascinating, and he’s inched closer over the course of their conversation. Their knees are pressed together under the bar. Jon’s carefully ignoring that. “What about? Fiction?”

“No, no. Politics, I guess. It’s about Barack Obama.” Jon waits a beat before he says, a little sheepish, “I, uh, I actually worked for him in the White House.”

“Oh god, I loved him,” Connor says. “That must’ve been incredible. What was he like?”

Jon’s gotten the question countless times but he falters with Connor watching him intently, chin in his hand.

“He was, uh. Amazing. Best boss I ever had.”

“Wow,” Connor murmurs. “The White House. You _are_ a politician, don’t lie to me.”

“That was a long time ago,” Jon says, laughing. “A different life. You were probably a kid back then.”

“Hey.” Connor rolls his eyes. “I’m not as young as I look.”

Jon raises a doubtful eyebrow, and Connor laughs and nudges their thighs together.  

“I’m legal,” he says, taking Jon’s drink out of his hand and taking a defiant sip. “And not even barely. I promise.”

He thumbs scotch off his bottom lip and grins at him. 

“Well, good,” Jon says dumbly, trying not to watch Connor’s mouth. It’s just- right there, soft and pink, and things are blurring a little in Jon’s vision. Connor licks his lips and Jon coughs and looks away, hits the home button on his phone and checks the time.

“Getting late,” he says. He’s starting to feel drunk. “Maybe I should, uh-“

“Sorry,” Connor says, ducking his head, rubbing his hand over his hair. He moves like he’s going to slide off his stool. “I’m bothering you. I bet you have somewhere to be.”

“No, it’s fine.” Jon snags his wrist as he goes. “You’re fine. I don’t have anywhere to be. I’m just- I’m jetlagged and I had a long day. Sorry. Usually I’m a much better conversationalist.”

Connor drops his wrist under the bar and Jon’s hand goes with it, onto Connor’s thigh. Connor slips his warm fingers over Jon’s and Jon yanks away, breath catching.

“Sorry,” Connor says, giving him a curious look. “Are you straight, is that it? Have I been playing footsie with you under the bar for nothing?”

Jon coughs a laugh into his scotch. No one’s ever asked him flat-out like that.

“No,” he says. It’s easier than he thought it’d be. _Not straight_. That’s what he is.

“You’ve got a boyfriend,” Connor guesses. “A husband. You’re too fit to be single, I knew it.”  

Jon chokes a laugh. “God no. No.”

Connor puts his chin in his hand. “You don’t have like a wife and kids, do you? That’d be just my luck.”

“Ex-wife?” Jon says, forcing out an embarrassed laugh. It feels wrong to tell him that for some reason. _People get divorced, Jon_ , _it’s okay_ , Tommy used to tell him a lot, in the raw months afterwards where Jon felt sick with shame at every reminder. 

Connor nods, watching him steadily.

“So if you’re not straight, and you’re not married,” he says. “Would you like to take me up to your hotel room?”

Jon looks at him. He’s so young. He smiles at Jon and his eyes crinkle a little at the edges, mischievous. It reminds him of-

“Yeah,” he says, letting out a breath. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Connor smiles wider. Jon can’t quite let the enormity of what he just did enter his brain. He’s drunk and jetlagged and he wants to ride this feeling as long as he can.

“Lovely,” Connor says softly. “Get the bill.”

\---

Jon shuts the hotel room door, double-locks it. When he turns around Connor’s fingering the bottle of red wine on the desk. The conference people sent it up when he arrived, but Jon doesn’t explain that to him. He doesn’t say anything. His tongue feels frozen and he twists around to re-check the locks.

“Nice place,” Connor says, looking up at him.

“Yeah, it is, it’s nice. The conference people put me up.”

“You must be very important.”

Jon huffs an uncomfortable laugh. “More like they had money to burn.”

Connor smirks at him, and slides his hand along the shiny desktop.

“How old are you?” he asks, looking up at Jon from under his dark eyelashes. “Just, you know. Curious.”

Jon laughs again, strained this time. “You really wanna know?”

Connor leans against the desk, hips angled up. Jon looks down his body, quickly. “I really want to know. Promise I won’t bolt.”

“42,” Jon says, reluctantly.

Connor grins like a shark. “I was guessing 40.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess.” Jon laughs and Connor echoes it.

He’s moving closer. Jon doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He puts them in his pockets but that feels weird so he pulls them out again.

“I’m 25,” Connor says, licking his bottom lip. “Does that bother you?”

Jon swallows. “I should- I should probably say yes, right?”

“No,” Connor murmurs, starting to unzip his jeans. “I think it’s sexy.”

Jon’s face is burning. 

“Do you sleep with blokes my age very often?” Connor asks, reaching a hand into his pants. He lets out a soft sigh, squeezing.

“No,” Jon says. He sounds breathless. _Never_ , he almost says, but that’s not- this guy doesn’t need to know that. No one needs to know that. He just needs to do this, so it’s over with. So he knows for sure.

Connor seems happy about that, anyway. “Don’t worry,” he says, biting his lip, hand still working inside his unzipped jeans. “I like older men. I think you’re really fit.”

He pulls off his t-shirt, drops it over the desk chair. He has hair on his chest, a dark trail into his unzipped jeans. Jon stares for a second before he says, belatedly, “Thank you.”

“Care to join me?” Connor asks, laughing a little, rubbing his hand over his chest. His nipples are hard and he has a tattoo on his hip, scrawled black script Jon can’t decipher. He sees Jon looking and laughs, reaching down to finger it.

“Embarrassing, I know. I was 20 and drunk in Ibiza. My terrible ex-boyfriend has the same one. A real high point of my life.”

Jon feels a familiar jealous clench. All that time he can’t get back, can’t change. He swallows it down and starts to unbutton his shirt, fingers clumsy.

“What do you want to do?” Connor says, coming over and helping him with the buttons. Jon looks at his downturned face, dark eyelashes, and feels a queasy kick of want. He’s just drunk enough for this. “Into anything in particular?”

“No,” Jon breathes, shrugging off his shirt. “I mean- whatever, whatever you want.”

“You like to get fucked?” Connor drags his hands down Jon’s chest and belly, slow over the soft parts, and Jon shudders.

 _No idea_ , Jon wants to say, but he stays silent. He and Emily never did that. Jon never asked, even though sometimes he thought about it, in the kind of vague, quiet way that apparently meant so much more than he thought it did.

“Or I bet you like it the other way round,” Connor murmurs, reaching down to unzip Jon’s trousers. “Big bloke like you. Want to hear me squeal on your cock?”

Jon doesn’t really like that, the dirty talk. It sounds fake. “Whatever you want,” he says again, feeling stupid. “Whatever you feel like.”

Connor looks confused for a second, and then his eyes flicker.

“Oh,” he says. “You like someone else making the decisions, hm?”

Jon’s breath catches. That’s closer. To what, he’s not sure.

“Yeah,” he says roughly. 

“I can do that,” Connor says, shoving Jon back towards the bed. “I fucking love that. Sit down, I want to suck you off.”

Jon staggers down onto the bed, pushes down his briefs and trousers. His hands are shaking. He has them down to his thighs when Connor kneels in front of him and says, “No, keep them on.”

His hands are cool when he places them on Jon’s thighs, leans in and breathes against the head of his dick. Jon looks at his bowed head, the back of his neck and his bare shoulders. His head spins, and he braces himself on the bed with his hands, chokes a quiet sound when Connor slides his mouth down around him.

He’s good at it, practiced. He goes deep, humming around him. Jon hasn’t had this in a long time, and he curls his fingers in the duvet, tries to breathe steady. It’s so fucking strange, that he’s - here, in a hotel room, in London, doing this. It doesn’t feel real. 

Connor looks up at him, sliding his mouth off til Jon’s dick is on his bottom lip. He blows cool air over it and Jon squirms, lifts a hand to set on his shoulder.

“Hands on the bed,” Connor says, staring up at him. “Don’t move them.”

Jon puts his hands back.

“Good boy,” Connor murmurs, before he swallows him down again. He sucks til Jon’s trembling, making noises he can’t help, and then he lifts his head and drags Jon’s pants down to his calves.

Jon closes his eyes when Connor slips a warm hand under him, between his legs.

“Hey,” he murmurs, looking up at him. “Lay back, let me touch you.”

Jon’s hands clench defiantly on the bed.

“Lay back, babe,” Connor says, sharper, pressing at Jon’s stomach with one hand, and Jon lays back against the cool duvet. He shivers as Connor curls a hand around him and jerks him a few times, rubs his thumb over the head.

“Pretty cock,” he says softly. His other hand slides between Jon’s thighs. Jon shuts his eyes when Connor strokes his balls and then further back, thumb against his hole. Jon must make a sound at that because Connor says, “Alright?”

“Yeah,” Jon says, shakily. It’s not supposed to feel like a medical exam, is it? He’s supposed to like this part.  

Connor takes his fingers away, holds Jon’s thighs apart with both hands. 

“Do you have lube?” he asks. “I’ve got a packet if you don’t.”

Jon chokes a laugh. He’s never bought lube in his life. If they needed stuff like that, Emily bought it. “No. Sorry. I don’t- I don’t even have condoms. I wasn’t really planning-”

“It’s fine then, I’ve got it,” Connor says distractedly, rolling off the bed and going over to his crumpled jeans on the floor.

While he’s rummaging around Jon closes his legs and stares up at the ceiling. Do they both need to wear condoms? He has no idea. Jesus, he’s so out of his depth. He rubs his hands over his face and tries not to think. If he thinks too much about this he’ll bolt, and he doesn’t want to. He wants to see this through.

Connor comes back and tosses a couple packets on the bed. 

“Up,” he says, beckoning, reaching over to rub Jon’s stomach with one hand. “C’mere. It’s been a while, huh?”

“What?”

“No condoms?” Connor asks, a smile lurking at the edge of his mouth. “C’mon, mate.”

“Sorry.” Jon moves up on the bed, sits against the headboard, watches as Connor rips open a silver packet of what must be lube. “I don’t usually do this.”

“I’m flattered, then.”

Jon tries to laugh but it dies in his throat when Connor wraps a hand around his ankle and pulls.

“C’mere,” he says. “On your back, that’s a good boy.”

Jon swallows shakily and slides down into bed.

\---

“You know,” Connor says, conversationally. He moves his slick fingers inside Jon again and Jon shuts his eyes involuntarily. Jesus _fuck_. “I wouldn’t mind if you were still married.”

“I’m not,” Jon gasps, feet clenching against the mattress, trying to keep himself still. He’s not. He’s not married.

“I know. But I wouldn’t mind.” Connor circles his fingers slowly, teasing. “Going home to your wife and she has no idea that you pick up boys in bars and take it up the arse-”

He laughs softly. Jon feels feverish with shame and want, like his body’s slowly heating up to boiling. He wants this and he - doesn’t. He wants something close to it. He wants to be home safe in bed with Leo’s chin on his chest. He thinks of Emily, helplessly. What would she say if she-

Connor takes his fingers out and Jon forces his eyes open, trying to keep control. Connor’s bent over, rolling a condom on slowly. He looks over at Jon and grins.

“Legs up, babe,” he says, pushing gently at Jon’s knee when Jon doesn’t move. Jon can’t breathe. He’s not going to spread his legs like a- his mind darts around, panicked, for a minute, before Connor says- “Unless you want to roll over for me. You want to roll over for me?”

Jon has to do this. He’s never going to know if he doesn’t do this, and he has to know, so he rolls over. It’s immediately easier with his face down and he shudders out a relieved breath.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Connor murmurs, as Jon shifts his hips trying to get comfortable. “Look at you. Arse up. Waiting for my cock like a good boy.”

Jon shakes his head, involuntarily, and then digs his face into the pillow. He wants to say something but he has no clue what. He feels like he’s being too quiet but Connor doesn’t seem to care. He’s stroking gently along Jon’s back, making him shiver and tense.

“Ask me for it,” he says quietly.

 _Fuck you_ , Jon thinks. Out loud he turns his head and says, “Just do it.”

“Thought I was calling the shots here,” Connor says, but he sounds amused and he’s running his thumb between Jon’s ass cheeks, tickling him. He presses down and Jon sucks in a sharp breath. “God, you’re fucking begging for it.”

Is Jon begging for it? He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know what his body looks like. He squeezes his eyes shut and says again, “Do it.”

Connor lifts his hips up and rubs his hole with two fingers. “You want it? You want my cock?”

Jon nods, chin against the bed. He feels like he’s going to cry if he opens his eyes so he keeps them shut.

“Say please,” Connor says, breathless. There’s something pressed blunt and hard against Jon’s ass now, bigger than fingers. “Hey. Say please.”

“Please,” Jon mumbles. He’s been bracing himself for so long that his body’s starting to ache.

“Good boy,” Connor murmurs, stroking his hips. He’s rubbing himself against Jon’s ass, in slow, deliberate rolls. It feels wet and slick. “You gonna open up for me?”

He doesn’t wait for Jon to answer before he spreads him with two fingers and starts to push in. Jon puts his teeth into his wrist and breathes out hard against it.

Connor groans slow as he sinks in. “ _Fuck_. You’re tight.”

Jon’s breath is shaking too hard to speak. He’s tearing up helplessly behind his eyelids.

“So tight,” Connor repeats, starting to move, slow at first. He puts a hot hand on Jon’s back and presses gently. “Breathe, babe. Breathe.”

“God,” Jon chokes, gripping the sheets. “Fuck.”

“Does that feel good?”

Jon has no idea. It hurts but his dick’s still hard. He gulps for air.

“You feel so good,” Connor murmurs. “So fucking tight.”

He runs his hand all the way up Jon’s spine and gently pushes his face down. He has a hand on the back of Jon’s neck when he starts to roll his hips and Jon’s grateful for it because he’s pretty sure he’s crying. He fumbles a hand down to touch himself and Connor says, “Yeah, babe. Get yourself off while I fuck you.”

That’s not why Jon’s touching himself, not at first- it’s to distract from the stretched feeling, soften the edges of the pain. To make something about this feel familiar. But Connor keeps going and it starts to feel- Jon moans a breath into the pillow, reaches up with his free hand til he finds the headboard to grip. Connor lets out a low groan behind him, pulling Jon’s hips up and fucking back in. Jon can’t breathe but it’s good this time, and he strips his dick raw trying to make it feel even better.

“Yeah,” Connor murmurs, breathless. “You like that?”

Jon likes it. He likes it. He wishes he were somewhere else but he likes it, too. How the fuck does that work? He shuts his eyes harder and then it’s just like he’s home in the shower jerking off. The dark behind his eyelids and the hot pressure as he gets closer. He used to close his eyes with Emily too and she didn’t like it. She’d whisper  _look at me_ , and turn his head with her hand, and Jon would always-

He puts her out of his mind with an effort and strokes himself faster. Connor matches his pace, thrusting short and sharp, and Jon braces himself against the headboard and takes it until he can’t anymore.

“Oh- fuck, _fuck_ ,” he gasps, coming hot over his fingers. “Fuck.”

“Mm, yeah,” Connor breathes, still fucking him. “Yeah. God that’s hot. You like that?”

He groans before Jon can answer, slamming a fist against the bed, hips jerking against him. When he’s done he drops, a heavy weight against Jon’s back. It shifts his dick inside him and Jon clenches his jaw so he won’t yelp.

“Shit,” Connor murmurs, kissing the back of his shoulder. He pulls out slowly but Jon chokes a helpless whimper anyway. Christ that hurts. 

Connor murmurs softly, rubs his back for a minute, until Jon rolls over, knocking his hand off.

“That was hot,” Connor says, grinning at him. “You’re lovely.”

Jon can’t say thank you to that. He can’t say anything. He stands up, wincing, and reaches for his boxers on the floor. He can feel wet between his legs as he pulls them on.

Connor tosses the condom in the trash can and looks back at Jon, drags his eyes down his body.

“Going to take a shower?” he asks, rubbing his hand over his bare chest. “I could join you.”

“No, I’m, uh. I’m good,” Jon says stiffly. “I’m just gonna wash up real quick.”

“Sure,” Connor says, not looking bothered.

Jon flips the bathroom light on and shuts his eyes against the fluorescent light. He fumbles for the sink and turns the tap on.

He washes his face for a long time, turning the water cold like he’s trying to wake himself up. Finally he can look into the mirror. His cheeks are flushed red and his eyes are watery. He looks old. He sniffs in hard and hears a low voice from the room. 

It’s Connor, sitting on the far side of the bed, shirtless with his phone to his ear. Jon peeks out from behind the half-opened door.

“No, I can’t,” he’s whispering into the phone. “I _can’t_ , I’ve pulled.”

There’s a pause and then Connor laughs, low in his throat. “Shut up, twat. He’s only 42. That’s not that bad.”  

Jon takes a soft step backward into the bathroom. He looks down at the white tile floor.

“Yeah,” Connor says. “Yeah, no, Sophie invited me on Facebook. I dunno if I can though. He might want to cuddle.”

He snickers. “Oh fuck off. I’ll text you when I leave. Yeah- yeah. I better go. Yeah. Speak to you later.”

Jon looks up at himself in the bathroom mirror and feels a clench of nausea. He swallows and pushes the door open, coughs.

“Hey,” Connor says, tucking his phone in his pocket.

“Hey.” Jon goes over to take a t-shirt out of his open suitcase. “I’m, uh, I’m pretty tired.”

“Wore you out, eh?” Connor’s smirking up at him.

Jon doesn’t answer that. He pulls the shirt over his head.

“Might just go to sleep,” he says stupidly. “If that’s- if that’s cool.”

Connor snorts like it’s funny. Like Jon’s funny. It probably is funny to him. He’ll tell his friends about it later, about the sadsack divorcé he fucked in a nice hotel room. Maybe he’ll even mention that Jon used to work for the President. Jon hadn’t even thought about that. _Shit._

“Yeah, that’s cool,” Connor says, standing up. “No worries.”

Jon stands there like an idiot while Connor gets dressed. His mind’s racing. Ten years ago he’d be fucked, it’d be over for him, but no one knows or cares anymore, do they? It’s not like he has any plans to run for office. Not anymore.

He stays very still when Connor comes over and pulls him into a hug.

“Well, good night,” he says softly, kissing the side of his mouth. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too,” Jon says unsteadily. “Thanks for, uh- thanks. That was fun.”  

“I had a good time,” Connor says, smiling up at him. “Have a safe flight home.”

“Thanks.”

Connor pats his arm and slips out the door. Jon stands there for a second, perfectly still, and then he reaches forward to flip the deadbolt.  

When he’s gone the room is too quiet. Jon’s ears are ringing. He grabs for the remote with a shaky hand, turns the TV on and wriggles out of his boxers to take a shower. Halfway through he loses his breath and presses his face to the wall. That was- that. That was what he’d been waiting for. That was why he’s not married anymore. Jon almost starts laughing out of sheer disbelief but a sob comes out of his throat instead, choked and loud. He sucks it in hard, knocks his forehead against the wall and reaches over to turn the shower off.

He lies down in bed but he can't sleep, can't unclench. Maybe he should’ve asked Connor to stay. Maybe that would’ve helped, having someone in bed next to him, warm and snoring. That was always his favorite part, with Emily. The closeness after, when they cleaned up and slipped into pajamas and crawled back into bed on fresh sheets with Leo between them. Talking quietly in the dark until they fell asleep.

Jon rolls over, away from that thought, and stares hard at the ceiling. It’s stuck in his head now, though, his brain helpfully supplying a string of memories. He lays there for a minute, chest aching, and then he pushes himself up and goes into the bathroom and takes the bottle of Ativan out of his dopp kit. He washes one down with a handful of water and goes back to bed.

\---

He wakes up late the next morning and fumbles half his answers at the panel discussion he’s been scheduled for, but no one seems to notice. They get lunch afterwards at a sushi place near the hotel, and Jon sits in the back corner and tries not to say anything stupid.   

“You must be done for the day,” one woman says jealously when Jon orders a second bottle of sake. She’s blonde and vaguely familiar from the day before but Jon can’t remember her name.

“Yeah,” Jon says, twisting the bottle open and refilling his glass. “Actually I’m flying out in a couple hours. Short trip.”

She plucks a piece of nigiri from her plate with her chopsticks. “What a shame. I was going to ask if you’d like to get dinner tonight.”

Jon looks up, surprised. She arches an eyebrow at him.

“Next time, I suppose,” she says, going back to her sushi.

Jon picks up his sake glass. “Sure,” he says. “Next time.”

\---

He takes a pill in the security line at Heathrow, and another one when he wakes up somewhere above the Atlantic. The flight attendant sees him coming back from the bathroom and hurries over.

“Would you like a beverage, sir? You were sleeping before.”

“Red wine, please,” Jon mumbles, still half-asleep. “Thank you.”

He sips it slowly, staring out the window, and then he shuts his eyes and doesn’t open them until the pilot’s announcing the descent. His wine glass is gone and there’s an indent in his cheek from sleeping against the window.

JFK’s crowded and his flight back to LA is overbooked. Jon listens to the announcements wearily, leaning his heavy head on his hand, and when they ask for volunteers to stay in New York for the night he finds himself standing up. He shouldn’t. He doesn’t need the flight voucher and he should get back to LA for that meeting with his editor tomorrow. He should get back for Tommy’s campaign event in Napa on Tuesday.

But he’s tired, and there’s some stubborn part of him that doesn’t want to get on another plane.

“Do you need a hotel, sir?” the lady asks, and he shakes his head, pulls out his phone while she prints his new boarding pass. He scrolls through his messages, vision still fuzzy.

A hotel would be easier. Right near the airport, somewhere close and quiet where he can get a shower and a good night’s sleep. But he’s never in New York anymore. He opens up his messages with Lovett.

The last one was from a couple weeks ago, Lovett asking about timing on a piece Jon was writing for the site. Jon never texted back. He stares at it, and then looks up when the woman slides his stuff across the counter.

“There you go,” she says. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning, Mr. Favreau.”

\---

When he’s in a cab he pulls up an email from months ago, rattles off Lovett’s address, and falls asleep again, helplessly, face against the cold window. He wakes up to the driver saying- “Hey. Hey. _Hey,_ man, we’re here.”

“Sorry,” Jon says, dazed. He fumbles for the door handle. “Thank you-”

“Cash or card?”

“Shit- sorry,” Jon says again. He hasn’t taken an actual cab in a while. “Uhh, let me just grab my wallet. One second.”

He pays and steps out, hoisting his bag over his shoulder. It’s raining, a cold drizzle, and Jon winces as he stares up at Lovett’s building. He probably should have called on the way. Or texted at least. Or gotten a fucking hotel room near the airport.

Too late now. The phone rings and rings. Jesus, what if Lovett’s not home? What if he’s not even in _town_?

Finally he picks up. “Hello?”

“Hey, Lovett.”

“Jon,” Lovett says, warily. “Hi. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Why would something be wrong?”

“It’s late. You never call. Aren’t you in London or something?”

“Just got back,” Jon says. “Well. I’m actually, uh. I’m in New York for the night, I had a- a layover.”

“You’re in New York?” Lovett doesn’t sound excited.

“Yeah.” Jon swallows, throat dry, and says- “I’m, uh, not to be weird, but I’m actually outside your apartment right now.”

Lovett laughs, sharp. “What? Seriously?”

“Yeah. I took a cab from JFK.” Jon rubs his palm over his face. “Sorry, I should have called first. Are you home? Can I, uh. Can I come up?”

Lovett’s quiet for a minute.

“Sorry,” Jon repeats, like an idiot. “I know I should’ve called earlier.”

Lovett lets out an audible breath. “Just- stay there. I’ll come get you.”

He comes to the door in a hoodie and gym shorts, shivering.

“Come in, come in,” he says, arm crossed over his chest. “Jesus. Standing out here in the rain like some kind of movie heroine. So dramatic.”

Jon laughs and steps inside, palming water off his face while Lovett gets the elevator.

“So,” Lovett says, hitting the top floor button, taking off his glasses to wipe them on his shirt. He’s gained some weight and he’s pale from the winter and his hair’s longer. The combination makes him look younger and it throws Jon for a loop. He was expecting the same Lovett who left LA in the spring, hair sheared and face tan. “You’re here. In New York. In my apartment.”

“I know I should’ve asked first.”

Lovett snorts. “Yeah, probably. What if I’d been out of town? You’d be screwed.”

“Is Sam here?”

Lovett gives him a sharp look. “Really? No. He’s teaching a course in Shanghai for four months. I told you that.”

He probably did. Jon skims his emails sometimes. “Oh. Sorry.”

“He’ll be back in January.”

Two more months. That must suck. For Lovett, at least. Jon likes Sam fine, but a conversation with him always feels a little bit like a lecture. He’s fuzzy from his pills and jetlagged as fuck, and having Sam talk his ear off about the Chinese economy sounds like the worst thing in the world right now.

“You gonna visit at all?”

“No.” Lovett unzips and zips his hoodie. “We might meet in Paris over Christmas, or something. I don’t know. He’s pretty busy.”

The elevator opens onto Lovett’s apartment and Jon steps inside, sets his suitcase down. He hasn’t been there before. It’s _huge_. High ceilings, exposed brick, a floor-to-ceiling window that looks out on the city. Jon whistles low.

“Jesus, Lovett.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s obscene. Sam bought it when he quit Goldman Sachs.”

“I still can’t believe you married an investment banker.”

“ _Former_ banker. Please. I’ve forgiven him for that.” Lovett shivers and rubs his hands over his arms. “Is it cold in here? Are you cold? I can turn up the heat. Honestly, I’ve been under a blanket for the past three hours with Pundit. She’s around here somewhere. Probably asleep.”

“It’s fine,” Jon says, toeing off his shoes. 

“You want something to drink?” Lovett won’t stop fidgeting. “I don’t know what we have, though. I didn’t know I’d have _guests_. I didn’t know you’d show up on my doorstep like a lost dog.”

Jon huffs an absent laugh, still taking in the apartment. “Can’t believe you actually live here.”

“It’s pretty sick, right?”

Jon gives him a look. “Don’t say sick. You’re in your forties.”

Lovett flips him off and leads him into the kitchen. There’s a laptop open on the counter with a couple books stacked next to it. Jon flips one over to look at the cover. _A History of Mathematics_. He holds it up and cocks his head at Lovett.

Lovett laughs. “Don’t be mad because I read books now, Jon. Don’t be mad because I’ve rediscovered my intellectual side and you’re still fighting people on Twitter like it’s 2017.”

“Hey, I never fight on Twitter anymore.”

“Oh, that’s such a lie. _Such_ a lie.” Lovett looks in the fridge and closes it again. “You want wine? We have so much wine. I’m supposed to text Sam before I take a bottle in case it’s one of the really good ones he’s saving for special occasions. He doesn’t trust me.”

“Are you serious?”

“He takes his wine very seriously. One time I mixed Merlot with Diet Coke and he almost had a coronary. I thought it was delicious.” Lovett opens a cabinet that’s filled top to bottom with carefully placed bottles. “Hmm. I see some whites, I see some reds-”

“Okay, sommelier, let me see.” Lovett steps out of the way, hands up, and Jon pulls out a bottle. It’s a 2021 Malbec from California. He checks the vineyard and puts it back. The next one’s a dusty Cab Sav from Chile, probably for a special occasion, definitely wildly expensive. Jon inspects the bottle and Lovett says from behind him, “What’s that one?”

“Chilean,” Jon says, reading the back. It’s all in Spanish. He knows _vino_ and _fuerte_ and that’s pretty much it. “Looks good.”

“Looks fancy,” Lovett says, taking it out of his hands. “But to be fair, any bottle that doesn’t have a screwtop still looks fancy to me. You want this one?”

“I mean, we don’t have to-”

“Fuck it. You’re in New York, that’s a special enough occasion.” Lovett hands him the wine opener. “You do it.”

\---

They settle on Lovett’s giant leather couch with wine and Jon spends a solid five minutes reacquainting himself with Pundit, kissing her head and letting her lick his face until all he can smell is dog breath and Lovett’s snapping his fingers and saying, “Hey. _Down_. Pundit, get off him. You look desperate.”

He reaches over for her and settles her in his lap. “That’s enough.”

Jon laughs and reaches over to scratch between her ears and she snuffles eagerly against his hand. “Good _girl_ , Pundo. Good girl. Yeah, I missed you too.”

“She only likes you because you don’t have to take her outside to do her business on a New York City sidewalk,” Lovett says crabbily.

“Sure. Sure.”

“So,” Lovett says, stroking Pundit’s head like a movie villain and fixing Jon with a look. Jon has to bite back a laugh. “So, you’re in New York.”

“I’m in New York.”

“And you had that- conference thing. In London.”

“Yeah. A symposium on global political issues.”

“Let me guess, you had to talk about that time when our country almost slipped into fascism. You were the cautionary tale.”

“Basically.” Jon laughs. “It was pretty boring.”

“Boring is so _great_ , though. I really appreciate boring now. You know?”

“Yeah, I know.”    

“How was the conference?”

“Pretty uneventful,” Jon says. He takes a deep sip of wine and steels himself. “I did meet someone, though.”

“Ooh.” Lovett leans in, eyes alight. “Did you have conference sex? You first locked eyes at the discussion panel on trade policy, you shared a romantic lunch of those mediocre sandwiches that are always at those kinds of conferences-”

“They _did_ have weird sandwiches!” 

Lovett looks smug. “It never fails. Even overseas. It’s like all conference organizers use the same sandwich distributor. That weird turkey and that awful dry bread. And there’s never enough mayo packets to go around.” He curls his feet under him and reaches for his wine. “So, you met someone at the conference.”

“It wasn’t actually at the-” Jon looks into his wine and thinks about how to say this. “I met him after the conference. At the hotel.”

Lovett’s completely quiet for a second, and then he says, “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Jon squints at his wine and then drains it in one gulp.  

“So you met a guy at the hotel.” Lovett sounds cautious. “Like, in the lobby? Where do you meet people in hotels? At the vending machine?”

“At the bar, dumbass,” Jon says, not looking at him. “It was the first person I, uh- met, since-”

He gestures with his empty wineglass. Hopefully Lovett gets it.

Lovett blinks at him. “It’s been like a year and a half.”

Jon shrugs. He knows how long it’s been.

“You really haven’t- not with anyone?”

“The fuck am I supposed to do, go on Tinder? I’m 42 years old.”

“That’s _exactly_ what you’re supposed to do. Or just go out to a bar or a- pumpkin patch or whatever people do these days. You’re handsome enough to meet people in real life.”

“A pumpkin patch?” Jon snorts. “It’s almost December. I’ll have to hit up a Christmas tree farm, pumpkin season is over.”

“Maybe a farmers market? You’ll brush hands reaching for the same organic zucchini and the rest’ll be history.”

“Sounds romantic.”

“Okay, stop changing the subject. How was it? Mind-blowing? Did he rock your world?”

“It was okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Or- good, I don’t know. Whatever.” He stares at his hands in his lap, looking bare without his wedding ring. He wore it for two months after they separated, until he took it off one day before spin class and never put it back on. It’s tucked in the back of his sock drawer in a Ziploc bag.

“Was he an asshole to you?” Lovett asks, sounding uncomfortable now. “About, you know, your whole checkered heterosexual past?”

“We didn’t really talk about it,” Jon says. He can’t look Lovett in the eyes. “So, no. It was fine. I don’t think I need to go into details.”

“No, I need details. I definitely need details. You started this, and now I need details. Was he a jerk? Was it like, just one of those nights you have to write off? We’ve all had those nights.”

“No, dude. It was fine.” Jon huffs an embarrassed laugh. “He was 25.”

“Fuck off.”

“Yeah.” Jon runs a hand through his hair. “A student. Or something.”

“Oh my god, Jon. Oh my _god_. That’s so sleazy. Are you sure he wasn’t a hooker?”

“Fuck off.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, no one would need money to sleep with you even at your advanced age. But  _twenty-five_?”  

“Think he had a thing for older guys,” Jon says, snorting. “I mean, I don’t just think. He said he had a thing for older guys.”

Lovett makes a face. “Where the hell did you find this guy?”

“Hotel bar.” Jon doesn’t know how to say this so he keeps laughing. “He bought me a drink. Asked me a bunch of questions-”

“Oh my god, he was on the prowl!” Lovett’s wide-eyed. “I can’t believe this. Did you check your wallet after he left?”

“Shut up, dude.” Jon laughs. “He was a nice guy. It just wasn’t-”

He doesn’t know what the hell he wants to say. He shrugs. “It was fine. It wasn’t life-changing. It was mostly just awkward. But it was- it was fine.”

“Hmm.” Lovett curls his feet under him on the chair. “You had a overseas one night stand with a hot British youth and you seem suspiciously underwhelmed. You sure you’re gay?”

Jon chokes a laugh. “No fucking idea.”

They’re both quiet for a minute. Jon looks up at him.

“You okay?” Lovett asks, sounding careful. “Like- are you, uh, you doing okay?”  

Jon tries to smile. “Yeah, man, I’m fine, I’m just tired. It’s not like- I mean, I miss Emily. But I’m good. Sorry.”

Lovett looks down.

“Do you wish you were still married to her?” he asks. “Like, that level of missing?”

Jon reaches to refill his glass of wine. “Uhh-”

“Sorry, is that too- I don’t know.” Lovett lets out a sharp laugh. “I don’t know how much I can ask you. I feel like- like it’s been a long time since we actually talked.”

“I’m not the one who moved across the country,” Jon says, not looking at him.

“You’re the one who doesn’t return my calls,” Lovett retorts.

“I return your calls.”

“Not really. You email me after I leave you a voicemail, with a response to whatever work thing I asked you about, because I don’t even feel like I can call you without a work question anymore.” Lovett’s voice rises. “So it’s technically a response but it doesn’t really count. You haven’t even asked how me and Sam are doing since the move. Which is _not great_ , by the way.”

Jon looks up. “What? Seriously? What happened? Tommy didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, so you talk about me with Tommy? But you won’t call me back?” Lovett glares at him. “Nothing happened. We just fight all the fucking time. And when we’re not fighting it’s because one of us is out of town for work.”

“You fight? About what?”

“Everything. Literally everything. From - from politics to like, where we’re gonna go for brunch. And it’s not fun fighting. It’s not like sitcom banter, it’s like- mean.”

He shrugs. “It’s mostly my fault. Like I’m always- but I just can’t- I don’t know. I just keep picking at him. I don’t know.”  

“Fighting doesn’t have to be-” Jon’s not sure what he’s going to say. “It doesn’t have to be bad. Like, maybe it means that, uh, that you guys are honest with each other.”

“He said he was ready for a break from me,” Lovett says, not looking at him. “In Shanghai. Like he said he needed a break. From me. That it was getting exhausting. And we needed to recharge.”

He gnaws at the side of his mouth, looks up at Jon. “That’s not a good sign, right? That’s not a- healthy thing.”

Jon swallows. “Sounds like a shitty thing to say to your husband.”

Lovett rolls his eyes like Jon knew he would. 

“I don’t know. God, I can’t believe I’m in like, a struggling marriage. I never even thought I’d be married at all, and now I’m like one of those fucking bored housewives who complains to strangers about her marital strife.”

“I’m a stranger?”

“Not you. Yesterday I told my Lyft driver _everything_. She was very compassionate. She thinks Sam needs to appreciate me more. Though it’s possible she was just trying to get a good tip.”

“Jesus. Poor lady.”

“Shut up.” Lovett laughs too, rubs his face with his hands. “God. I don’t know. Maybe we’ll go to couples therapy and he’ll find out he’s been straight the whole time. Who fucking knows. It’s possible, apparently.”

Jon forces a sour laugh. “Tough hit.”

Lovett looks up at him, like he’s gauging if Jon’s really mad. Jon’s not, but that’s mostly because he can’t muster up the energy.

“Did you and Emily fight a lot?” he asks sheepishly. “Before you, you know- I’m just trying to diagnose myself here. Like am I on the brink of divorce or is this just normal growing pains? Will we laugh about this on the porch of our retirement home in Florida in 30 years?”

He shivers. “God. 30 years. That’s like forever.”

“That’s marriage, dude,” Jon says. Like he’s a fucking expert. He almost laughs. “Til death do us part. It’s right in the vows.”

“Not our vows. We wrote our own, remember?” Lovett puts his chin in his hand. “That’s some Catholic shit.”

“It’s not just Catholic.”

“Is it not? I thought it was.” Lovett hums thoughtfully.

“No, by the way,” Jon says after a second of silence. “We never really fought. That was kinda part of the problem.”

It feels weird to talk about it with Lovett. Jon’s been unraveling it in his head for the past two years but to actually say it out loud- it’s weird.

“I mean, not the only problem,” Jon adds weakly. “Obviously.”

“But part of it.”

Jon shrugs. “I mean, we fought near the end. After we started going to therapy. Then it was like fucking open season.”

Lovett’s watching him curiously.

“But even then, like. I don’t know. I hate fighting.”

“Yeah, I’ve actually met you before, Favs.”

Jon huffs a laugh. Lovett laughs too, watching him, and then he looks down.

“Back to your one night stand,” he says, rubbing behind Pundit’s ears. “Here’s what I’m thinking. I think you need a boyfriend. Not some twenty-something twink taking his daddy issues out on you. You need some guy your age. Who has a house and a 401k and wears, like, cardigans.”

“Cardigans?”

“You know what I mean. Someone nice. Someone who cooks you dinner.”

Jon chokes a laugh. “I - I don’t know, man, I think that ship has sailed.”

“When? Did you have a boyfriend when I wasn’t looking? You haven’t dated anyonein like ten years. No ship has sailed. No ship has even- left the port. The ship’s still in the shipyard. The ship is like a pile of boards and - and twine.”

“Good ship metaphor.”

“Thanks.”

“They definitely use twine to build ships. It’s so durable.”  

Lovett barks a laugh. “Shut up. I’m not a boat expert. I’m not _Tommy_. And my point stands.”

He shakes a finger at Jon. “I’m married so I get to give relationship advice. I’ve earned that right. Now go meet someone at a farmers market.”

“Reaching for the same zucchini.”

“Exactly. What a metaphor.” He snorts and goes quiet. “When you think about it, it really is weird. That I’m _married_. And you’re- you know-”

“Okay, Lovett.”

“I mean, it’s just- it’s weird.”

“You don’t actually have to constantly remind me that I’m divorced.” Jon keeps his voice light. “I promise I remember.”

“Oh, come on. That’s not what I was saying.” Lovett tips his cheek against the back of the couch and sighs. “I don’t know what I was saying. I’m tired.”

“Me too,” Jon says, yawning.

Lovett watches him for a moment, eyes dark through his glasses. Jon looks back, until Lovett turns away and says, “I’ll show you the guest room.” 

\---

The bed in Lovett’s guest room is surprisingly plush. Jon sits on the edge to pull his jeans off and can’t resist the urge to flop backward and dig his head into the mattress for a stretch, yawning wide. God it feels good. It’s been a long weekend.

He feels a soft nudge at his leg and he sits up and grins. “Hey, Pundit.”

Pundit looks at him imploringly until Jon reaches down to scoop her up. He’s kissing her head when he remembers and curses to himself, fumbles in his pocket for his phone.

The phone rings five times before Emily picks up. 

“Jon?”

“Hey.” Jon coughs. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Are you back?”

“No, I’m actually- I forgot to call, shit. Sorry. I’m staying the night in New York, my flight was overbooked. Can you keep him another night?”

There’s a pause. Finally Emily says, “Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Sorry, I should’ve called earlier.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind. We’re having fun.” She’s quiet again. “How was the conference?”  

“It was good. Fine.”

“Did the airline get you a hotel?”

“No, I’m, uh. Staying in the city.” He coughs again. “I’m staying at Lovett’s actually.”

Another pause. Pundit starts squirming in his arms so Jon sets her down with one hand. She trots out of the room.

“Oh, great,” she says distantly. “Tell him hi from me.”

“I will.” God, it’s like a play or something, the way they talk now. It’s like strangers. He rubs his hand over his face. “I’ll, uh, my flight leaves at 11, so I’ll be in at like 2:30 or so. I’ll call.”

“Sounds good. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I’ll- I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

“Night, Em. Thanks again.” He hangs up, lets out a shaky breath and opens up Twitter. He’s scrolling when Lovett pokes his head in. Pundit’s at his feet, peering in at him.  

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Jon says. He pulls the covers up over his bare legs. “Emily says hi.”

“Were you just talking to her?” Lovett leans against the door. “God, I don’t get your relationship.”

“I’m supposed to pick up Leo when I get back, I had to tell her I won’t be home tonight.”

Lovett nods, crossing an arm over his chest.

“How is she?” he asks, casually. “I didn’t really get to stay friends with her. You know, after.”

Jon knows that. It’s one of those things he tears into himself about when he can’t fall asleep.

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, inadequate. “I know things got, uh. Messy.”

Lovett shrugs. “How’s she doing?”

“Good. Great, I think.” Jon musters up a smile. “She has a boyfriend. Ben. He’s cool.”

“Yeah, I met him at the wedding.” Lovett shifts on his feet. “Are you, like, okay with that?”

“I don’t think I really get to be not okay with it. Right?”

Lovett looks down. “With me you can. If you want.”

“I’m fine. I mean, I’m happy if she’s happy.”

Lovett makes a face at him. “Stop being so fucking mature all the time.”

Jon snorts. “What, do you want me to be an asshole?”

“You could try being honest about how you feel. I know it’s not your specialty, but-”

Jon forces out a clenched laugh. “Oh, good one.”  

Lovett looks guilty. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I’m just saying you don’t have to sugarcoat everything like you’re giving a fucking interview. I’m your friend. You can be- honest with me or whatever.”

“Well that’s new,” Jon says, sharp. “I don’t remember a lot of heart to hearts after Emily and I got divorced. Mostly remember you planning your giant wedding and moving to New York.”

Lovett recoils. “Are you serious right now?”

“Don’t remember you having a lot of time to get all _honest_ with me when my life was fucking falling apart-”

“You have to be kidding me. I can’t read your fucking mind, Jon, I can’t-”

“So just save it. Seriously. Don’t act like it’s my fault.”

Lovett gapes at him.

“I didn’t say anything was your fault. When did I say it was your fault? All I said was that you don’t have to like, censor yourself. That’s all I said.”

“You think I’m lying about how I-” Jon’s breath catches hard and he has to swallow. “About Emily. I’m not lying. Sorry I don’t hate my ex-wife. Sorry I don’t feel like gossiping with you.”

“I don’t think you’re lying, what the fuck, Jon, honestly. I never said you were lying.” Lovett peers at him. “Are you seriously mad at me for moving to New York? Because you never said that. You fucking helped me _pack_.”

“No,” Jon says shakily. He swallows again, hard. Inhales and lets it out slow. “I’m not mad, I just- you’re acting like you were around. You weren’t. Which is fine. But don’t act like you were.”

“Phones exist. Email exists. I didn’t fall off the face of the earth.”  

“Oh- come on.” Jon breathes a groan. “You know that’s not- god. It’s fine. I’m not mad. Can we stop?”

Lovett laughs sharply. “And there you fucking go again.”

“What?”

“Deflecting,” Lovett says, eyes narrow on his. “Pretending everything’s fine. Classic Jon Favreau avoidance technique. You think you’ll ever stop doing that? Do you think you’ll _ever_ -”

He stops when he sees the look on Jon’s face. Jon’s tired, that’s his excuse, that’s why his eyes hurt so bad. He scrubs his palms over his face.

“Jon. Hey.”

“I’m so fucking tired,” Jon mumbles. “I just need to go to sleep.”

“Your life didn’t fall apart,” Lovett says. He always does that, remembers things from earlier in the conversation and brings them up at the worst moments. Jon used to love that about him. It was dizzying the way Lovett’s mind worked, how it could snag on a point and stay there.

Jon laughs, still rubbing his face. “Yeah? What do you wanna call it?”

Lovett makes a sharp sound of frustration. “You know what, Jon, some of us don’t actually hate being gay.”

Jon loses his breath like it’s been punched out of him. He keeps his hands over his face, and lets the air back in little by little. “Cool. Cool. Good for you.”  

“Your life didn’t _fall apart_ ,” Lovett says. “A lot of people get divorced. And you get to be- you get to be yourself now. I know that’s cliche, hashtag it gets better, but I promise it’s actually pretty great-”

“Shut up, Lovett,” Jon says, muffled into his palms. _Be yourself_. Such bullshit. Whoever that was in that hotel room, it wasn’t Jon. 

“You get to sleep with people you’re attracted to. Like that’s pretty great, even if it wasn’t with that British guy, who, no offense, sounds pretty sketchy.”  

Jon’s finally able to uncover his face. He keeps his eyes away from Lovett, fumbles for his phone on the bedspread. “I’m gonna go to bed.”

“You’ve never asked me about it,” Lovett says. He’s so stubborn. “You’ve never- talked to me about it. Being gay. Like, we could talk about it.”

Jon stares determinedly at Twitter.

“Like. I know I seem pretty happy about it, and I- am. I am. But I have a whole well of teenage angst to draw on. _Years_ of shame and self-loathing. I think we could find some common ground.”

 _When I told you, you said you didn’t want to hear it_ , Jon thinks, but that would start a whole new conversation he really doesn’t feel like having.

He sniffs in hard and says again- “I have to go to bed, Lovett. I’m exhausted.”

“Okay, fine,” Lovett mutters. “What time’s your flight tomorrow?”  

“11 AM, I think. So I should get out of here pretty early.”

“Gonna take a cab?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Lovett shoves his hands in his pockets. “Good night.”

“Night,” Jon says, and finally the door closes. Finally it’s quiet. Jon tips his head back against the wall and exhales. 

\---

Jon’s wide awake by 4 AM and he can’t fall back asleep no matter how hard he tries. Finally he gives in and goes quietly out to the kitchen to make coffee.

Sam and Lovett’s apartment is cozily messy, mail piled on the counter next to a stack of newspapers, Lovett’s shoes strewn around the elevator door. Jon makes coffee in Lovett’s ancient shitty coffeemaker and sips it slowly by the window. It’s a killer view, even in the dark- Manhattan glittering in the gray twilight. Jon imagines waking up here every day, seeing this view every day. Must be nice.

He turns away, inspects the row of framed photos on the mantle. Sam with his brothers at their family’s house in the Hamptons. Lovett with his mom and dad and sister. Lovett and Sam dancing at their wedding. Lovett has his face in Sam’s neck but the camera caught just the edge of his smile, soft and blissful. Jon looks at it for a long minute. It’s a good picture.

The last photo is Tommy and Jon and Lovett, grinning with their arms around each other outside the first Crooked office, the day they moved in. They look equal parts ecstatic and terrified. Jon turns away and gulps down the rest of his coffee.

Lovett doesn’t wake up until Jon’s packed and showered and ready to go. He shuffles into the kitchen and squints at Jon through his glasses. 

“Hey,” Jon says, tucking his iPad into his backpack. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Lovett mumbles, trying and failing to push his hair out of his face. “Did you make coffee?”

“Yeah, there’s some in there. Made it a while ago though, so it might be cold by now.”

Lovett squints even harder. His eyes are basically closed. “How long have you been up? Jesus.”

“Jetlag,” Jon says, checking the time on his phone. He carefully folds his boarding pass and slips it in his back pocket. “I’m still on London time.”

“Are you leaving?”

“In a couple minutes. My flight’s at 11:00.”

“It’s only 8:00.” Lovett yawns wide. “Oh yeah, I forgot, you’re weird about that.”

“I’m not weird. I just hate being late for a flight.”

“It’s not for three hours.” Lovett feels the coffee pot and groans. He dumps it in the sink and says grumpily, “You getting there absurdly early won’t actually make the plane not crash, you know.”

“Thanks,” Jon says tightly. “That’s really helpful.”

“Just saying.” Lovett yawns into his fist and unfurls the bag of coffee. “Do you still take those pills? What are they? Xanax or something?”

Jon looks away, feeling caught out. He took one ten minutes ago, the last one in the bottle. “They’re just Ativan.”

Lovett’s carefully scooping coffee into a filter, shoulders hunched. “Yeah, Ativan,” he says absently. “Whatever.”

Jon watches him quietly for a second. It’d be nice to stay another day, or even a few more hours. Jon should’ve asked for an afternoon flight. They could have had coffee, maybe some breakfast- Jon hasn’t had a good bagel in months.

“Sometimes,” he says vaguely- Lovett’s not listening anymore anyway- and then, “I better head out.”

Lovett presses the elevator button for him and gives him a quick, perfunctory hug, not looking at him, mouth curled in that little grimace of his that can mean so many different things. Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe he’s still angry from the night before. Jon doesn’t know and he’s too scared to crack things open by asking, so he pulls away when Lovett does and says goodbye. 

\---

He’s early to his gate, and he dozes off with his phone in his lap and wakes up to the buzz of a text.

It’s Emily. _What time are you getting in??_

Jon taps out a one-handed answer, resting his head on his palm. _Around 230pm. I’m going to uber home and grab my car to come pick him up. Does that work??_

He jiggles his knee restlessly until he notices a guy watching him, eyes narrowed like he knows him from somewhere. He gives him a bland smile and looks back down at his phone. The Ativan’s not kicking in like usual and he still feels jittery.

 _Yeah, no hurry,_ Emily sends. _Just text before you leave your place._

The guy is still staring. He definitely recognizes him- a rarity these days, but it happens. Jon slips his phone in his pocket and stands up to go get himself another coffee. He's not in the mood.  

\---

Emily answers the door in leggings and a sweatshirt, glasses on, hair in a bun at the top of her head.

“Hey,” she says. They don’t hug. Sometimes Jon wonders if they’ll ever get to that point. As it is, they're just carefully polite. Jon doesn't mind. It makes things easier. 

“Hey,” he says. “Sorry I’m late. Getting out of LAX was a mess.”

“It’s cool, I’m working from home today.” She yells back into the house. “Leo! Leo, come!”

Jon whistles, and grins when he hears the click of Leo’s nails on the wood. He reaches down to ruffle his head. “There he is. Hi buddy.”  

“How was the flight?” she asks, handing him Leo’s leash.

“Fine. Wasn’t too bumpy.” He leans down to grab Leo’s bag. “How was he?”

“Perfect,” she says. “We went hiking, we did Runyon-”

“Really?” He scoops Leo into his arms. “Good job, boy. So strong.”

“Yeah, it was fun.” She laughs. “Okay, honestly, Ben carried him the last like quarter mile. But we got there.”

“It counts.”

“Right? It totally does.” She kisses Leo’s face and ruffles the fur behind his ears. “Bye, sweet boy. See you soon.”

Leo licks her nose and Jon huffs a laugh.

Emily pulls back, wiping her nose with her thumb.  

“God, sometimes I’m so glad we didn’t have kids,” she says. “Sorry. But how much would this suck if Leo were an actual baby?”

Jon rubs his face in Leo’s fur, gives him a kiss. “A lot.”

“Right? And it already kinda sucks.” She lets out an awkward laugh.

“Emily?” Jon hears from behind her. He pastes a smile on when Emily’s boyfriend sticks his head around the corner. “Oh- hey, man.”

“Hey, Ben.” Jon pulls his jacket around Leo, so Leo’s tight to his chest, a warm lump. “How are you?”

“Great, thanks. Good to see you.” He’s carrying a beer and he’s barefoot. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were still here.”

“It’s cool, I’m on my way out.” Jon shifts Leo in his arms. “Thanks for hanging out with him all weekend.”

“No problem, man, it was fun.” Ben slides a hand onto Emily’s shoulder, and she takes a step back, towards him, lets him sling an arm around her. “How was your trip?”

“Oh- fine. Thanks. Boring but fine.” Jon coughs. “I should probably get home, I’m so jetlagged. Have a good night, guys.”

“See you next week,” Emily says quietly, reaching out to shut the door. “Good night.”

He puts Leo in the passenger seat and backs out of the driveway. Leo sniffs all over him, licking his arm as he drives, and Jon laughs.

“You miss me, buddy? You smell Pundit on me? You smell your sister?”

Leo curls up in his seat, tongue hanging out. Jon reaches over to scratch his fluffy head. “Yeah, I missed you too.”

His condo is dark, the curtains drawn, and it smells stale. Jon flicks on a lamp, opens the sliding glass door and opens Leo’s doggy door so he can go pee.

Everything’s just as he left it- a weird part of living alone that he’s still getting used to, even now. The dirty plate in the sink from breakfast before his flight on Wednesday. A couple pieces of kibble he spilled on the ground when he was filling Leo's bowl last week.

Jon leaves them both and opens windows until he can smell the jasmine bushes outside. When he's done he flops down on the couch, stretches his legs out, and passes out like a light.

\---

He wakes up to a dark condo and his phone buzzing on the ottoman. He fumbles for it with one hand.

“Hello?”

“So, your plane didn’t crash,” says a familiar voice. It’s Lovett. Jon grins, still half-asleep. “Wait, were you sleeping?”

Jon drops his head back onto the pillow, turns the phone on speaker and sets it on his chest. “Yeah.”

“It’s only like 7:30 there.”

"Seriously? It feels later." 

Lovett hums. "Yep. 7:36." 

“Jet lag, I guess,” Jon says, with a yawn. “It’s fine, I’m awake now. What’s up, Lovett? Miss me already?”

“Ha,” Lovett says flatly. “Never missed you in my life.”

Jon misses him already. He wishes he could’ve stayed for breakfast. He shuts his eyes.

“Did I forget something?”

“No, Jesus. Can’t I call you just to talk?” Lovett sighs. “I thought that was the whole point of our little impromptu reunion.”

“To - what, to talk on the phone?”

“To be normal again. Or whatever.” Lovett goes abruptly quiet like he’s said too much. He coughs. “So are you- are you back home?”

“Yeah, I’m home.” Jon kicks his legs up on the back of the couch.

“How was your flight?”

“Uneventful. I was in first class, though, that was nice. Since they upgraded me.”

“Did you get Leo?”

Jon turns to look for him. Across the room Leo lifts his head and looks at him sadly.

“Yeah, I got him. He’s currently looking at me like I killed his whole family because I haven’t fed him dinner yet.”

“See, it’s good I woke you up. You can’t let Leo go hungry.”

“I’ll get dinner, buddy,” Jon promises, and Leo’s tail starts wagging. “Just one second.”

“How’s Emily? Why am I like interviewing you right now?”

“I don’t know, man, it’s weird. But she’s fine. She and Ben took Leo up Runyon this weekend. Ben had to carry him part of the way. He got tired.”

Lovett laughs, and then sighs audibly. “God, I miss LA. I miss _sunlight_. And trees. New York is miserable right now.”

“Come visit,” Jon says, digging his head into the pillow. He bites his lip. “Tommy misses you. And Zoe’s growing up so fast, dude, it’s insane. She’s talking now. She keeps trying to say Lucca but she can’t quite get those C’s down.”

“Yeah, Tommy sent me a video.”

“Isn’t she perfect?”

“Yeah. She’s Tommy’s kid, of course she’s perfect. She’ll probably be solving Rubik’s cubes by age 5.”

“Negotiating middle east peace by junior high.”

“With Hanna’s hair and perfect teeth? She’s gonna be unstoppable. Probably President, at the _very_ least Ambassador to the UN or something.”

“I like how Hanna only contributes hair and teeth. Pretty sexist, Lovett.”

“How fucking dare you. You know what I meant. You bad faith actor.”  

Jon laughs and stands up. “Okay, give me a second, I’m gonna feed Leo.”

“Maybe I’ll go give Pundit a treat. I’ve been inspired by you.”

“Great idea, Lovett. She deserves it. She is an angel, after all.”

" _Finally_ he admits it."  

They talk while Jon feeds Leo, and while he takes him out for a stroll around the block, and when he gets home and goes out to the back porch to let Leo sniff all his favorite familiar spots in the yard. They talk until Leo gets tired of that and looks up at Jon pitifully until Jon lets him sit in his lap. 

Finally Lovett stops mid-story to yawn, so wide Jon can hear his jaw squeak. Jon immediately mirrors him, eyes watering. Leo’s asleep against his thigh and Jon blinks blearily down at him.

“Hey, I should probably get some sleep,” he says reluctantly. “And it’s pretty late where you are.”

“It’s midnight,” Lovett informs him, chewing loudly. “And I’m sitting here eating the leftover pad thai I was gonna have for lunch. Which means I’ll need to order more food for lunch, and honestly, I’m probably gonna order more pad thai. Or maybe pizza. Do you think Sam’s gonna divorce me if he comes back and I’ve gained like twenty pounds?”

Jon laughs. “I don’t think so.”

“He might. I’ve really let myself go since we moved. Everyone wears giant coats in the winter, and I mostly work from home, there’s no social pressure to be skinny.”

“I just saw you last night and you haven’t- let yourself go, you idiot.” Jon rubs his thumb behind Leo’s ear. “You look good.”

“You’re biased.”

“How am I biased?”

“You’re my friend, you have to say that. You have to lie. You can’t be like, _wow, Jon, eat a vegetable._ "

“C'mon, dude,” Jon says fondly. “Sam’s not gonna care if you put on a couple pounds.”

“So I’ve put on a couple pounds, that’s what you’re saying? Wow. _Wow._ ”

Jon laughs. “Aren’t we supposed to get less neurotic as we get older?”

“It’s the exact opposite. I feel like a moody teenager half the time, it sucks. I hate everything about aging. I used to be like, oh I’ll be fine when I get old because I was never hot to start with, but _no_. It’s still the worst.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Shut up. You do not. You’re like fucking George Clooney, you’re somehow getting more handsome as you get older. Like a fine wine. It’s unfair.”

“Bullshit,” Jon says, smiling up at the dark sky. “I’ve definitely peaked.”

“You just had a torrid affair with a 25 year old, you smug asshole.”

“Torrid _affair_?”

Lovett starts laughing, sounding a little manic. He really does need to sleep. “I mean, basically!”

“A shitty one night stand is not a _torrid_ _affair_ , Lovett.”

“So it _was_ shitty!”

Jon rolls his eyes.

“I knew you were bullshitting me. It’s okay to have bad sex, Jon. It’s a gay rite of passage. You’re hitting some important milestones here, you’re just a couple years late.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say to that so he forces a hollow chuckle. “Thanks, Lovett.”

“Did I ever tell you about that time that guy threw up on me in college? Oh my god. You better pray that’s not your next life lesson.”

Lovett _has_ told him, several times, but it’s a good one, so Jon hums encouragingly and settles in to listen.

Finally Lovett winds down and says suspiciously- “Are you asleep?”

“No,” Jon laughs, tipping his head back. “Close though. I forgot how long that story was. Amazing how you haven’t forgotten a single detail. You must tell it a lot.”

“You asshole.” Lovett sighs. “Fine, go to bed. At- 9:30 PM like a fucking grandpa.”

“It’s like 5 AM in my head. I basically just pulled an all-nighter, I’m tired.”

“Go to sleep then,” Lovett says, breaking off into a yawn.

“Fine.” Jon shuts his eyes. “Good night, Lovett.”

It feels good to say that to someone.

“Good night, Jon.”

“I’ll, uh. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“You better. Don’t ignore me for six months and then show up at my apartment in the pouring rain again. This isn’t a fucking romcom. Communicate like a normal person.”

Jon snorts. “Fine. Guess I won’t hold up a boombox outside your window either.”

“God, you’re old.” 

They’re both quiet for a second. Jon opens his eyes.

“Okay, not to get briefly serious,” Lovett says, quick like he wants to get it over with. “But if you want to talk about- about anything. You can call me. Okay?”

Jon clears his throat. “Okay.” 

“Don’t fuck any more 25 year olds. And don’t go full midlife crisis and bleach your hair and buy a motorcycle or whatever. You’d look awful blonde and you’re a terrible driver.”

Jon chokes out a laugh. “Thanks, Lovett. Solid advice.”

Lovett’s quiet again. Jon can hear him breathing. He wonders if Lovett’s in bed now, or maybe curled up on the couch, feet tucked under him, looking out that big window at the city. Maybe he’s at his kitchen counter, curly head in his hand, the takeout box open in front of him. Jon can almost see it.

“You asleep?” Jon says softly.  

“No,” Lovett mumbles back.

Jon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to hang up. He puts his chin in his hand and waits.

“Okay,” Lovett says finally, with an audible yawn. “Okay, I’m going to bed. I am putting down the noodles and I am going to _bed_.”

“Good call. Brush your teeth.” Jon shuts his eyes, trying not to smile. “Good night, Lovett.”

“Good night, Jon.”

Lovett hangs up. Jon wipes the phone on the front of his shirt and presses his thumb down to unlock it. He’s opening up Twitter when Leo shifts sleepily against him and Jon sets the phone aside, gathers Leo up against his chest and squeezes him.

“Love you, bud,” he murmurs into the soft top of his head. That feels good to say too. Leo’s fluffy and freshly washed and Jon almost starts crying, for some strange reason- the jetlag, probably, or the raw sore throat he can feel settling in from dry airplane air, or maybe how soft and warm the night air is in LA. He’s not sure.

He holds Leo tight until he starts to squirm, and then he lets him down and stands up and goes inside, rubbing his nose and rolling his neck til it cracks. Enough of that.

He locks the doors and turns the lights off and brushes his teeth in front of the mirror, squinting at himself. Leo’s curled at the foot of the bed, and Jon pulls the covers back and gets in beside him. He reaches over to turn the lamp off, pats the mattress behind him til Leo pushes himself up slowly and resettles against Jon’s back.

They have a good routine going, him and Leo. It’s not so bad. It works.

He reaches behind him to rub Leo’s warm side, puts his hand on it so he can feel him breathe, slow and steady. Maybe Lovett does the same thing with Pundit when Sam’s gone. Maybe he gets lonely too.

Jon shuts his eyes and lets his hand slip off Leo’s belly. Probably not. 

**Author's Note:**

> title from the van morrison song of the same name:
> 
> i'm a dweller on the threshold/and i'm waiting at the door  
> and i'm standing in the darkness/i don't want to wait no more  
> i have seen without perceiving/i have been another man  
> let me pierce the realm of glamor/so I know just what I am


End file.
